


All It Takes

by Mei (Mei_Hitokiri)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mei_Hitokiri/pseuds/Mei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes all it takes is a push. For John and Sherlock, all it takes is a child genius in the home.<br/>Very mild fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All It Takes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tempted to write a continuation where John shows Sherlock exactly how much he appreciates his cheekbones. Thoughts? Reviews are very much appreciated as I'm trying to work on my writing style; flames welcome, with constructive criticism!

“John?!” he called. John sighed, the sound of a man who knew what was coming next. Sherlock may have prided himself on his ability to read others, but he himself was plain-text to John. Nevertheless he humoured the man.  
“What?”  
“John, why is there a teenage girl on the sofa?”  
“We talked about this, Sherlock. After Baskerville, remember?” There was an elongated pause as Sherlock wandered around his mind palace.  
“No, John, I don’t. Which, by definition, means it didn’t happen.” John sighed again and moved himself from the computer. He turned towards the door to Sherlock’s bedroom from whence the disgruntled man had emerged. He picked up his Dictaphone; a recent purchase, having given up trying to follow their conversations. He rewound it a little before hitting play. For a fraction of a moment there was only static, before a voice that was unmistakably John’s came over the tinny speaker.  
“I told you about my god-daughter, didn’t I?” There was a violent discord in the background as someone, presumably Sherlock, showed his annoyance at being interrupted whilst playing.  
“What was her name? Sadie, Shannon?”  
“Sophie, Sherlock. Sophie.”  
“Yes, yes, whatever. Why d’you bring her up?” John took in a breath to reply, but he was cut off. “Let me guess. From the way you’re fidgeting nervously she’s told you she’s coming to stay. However from the slight flush on your cheeks it wasn’t planned and thus the reason is something to do with her not being able to tell her parents. She’s what, 16? Pregnant, then.” Sherlock returned to strumming ear-breaking chords on his violin.  
“Yes, she can’t tell her parents. Yes, she’s coming to stay. No, she’s not pregnant.” The chords stopped.  
“No? Go on, where did I go wrong?”  
“They’re dead. She’s coming to live with me, because I’m her only next of kin.”  
“Oh.” The recorder clicked as it came to the end of the tape.  
“Indeed. Apologies, I found it unnecessary to store such information. Just keep her out of my way.” The girl, who had so far been motionless, rose from her seat and passed a contemptuous look at Sherlock.  
“You needn’t worry, Mr Holmes. I’ve better, more important, things to do with my life than to get in the way of your infantile experiments.” With that, she picked up the bag that had been sitting by the door, and left.  
  


“Sophie! Goddammit, Sophie stop!” John panted as he jogged after her. She slowed her pace from the quick march she’d been following in order to allow him to catch up. “Just ignore him. He’s not very tactful and he doesn’t mean what he says.”

“Of course he means it. He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.”  
“Look, just try it for a week or so. Your father would kill me if he knew I’d left you to the system.” She stopped, and looked at John as if he’d told her he was pregnant.  
“I beg your pardon. What gave you the impression I was about to hand myself over to the red tape? Do I look like somebody who has no goal in life?” John was stumped.  
“Then where are you going?”  
“To the library, then the doctors, then the dentist.” John jumped a little, twisting uncomfortably to see the newcomer.  
“Jesus, Sherlock!” Sherlock looked straight past John to Sophie.  
“Am I right?”  
“Whereto after the dentist though?” Sherlock frowned for a second.  
“Hall of Records. Then sightseeing.”  
“Wrong.”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“I’m doing neither of those things.”  
“That’s what the evidence leads to. The sturdy shoes, casual dress, full set of ID in the bag; hence the tightened grip on the bag when a stranger passes.”  
“The evidence tells you what I want you to see, and what you think you should see.” John, to his credit, had managed not to act like a cat at a table tennis tournament. Sherlock, however, looked like a cat who’d found out that the cream wasn’t actually cream.  
“The British Museum.” Sophie gave a smirk.  
“No.”  
“Buckingham Palace.”  
“No.”  
“King’s Cross.”  
“No.”  
“Covent Garden.”  
“No.” Sherlock looked like he’d been slapped. He passed a look to John before storming back in the direction of Baker Street. John looked back at her, trying too to work out where she was going.  
“Where are you going after the dentists?” She gave a slight half smile.  
“Nowhere. I’m going home.” And with that, she walked off.  
  


The door clicked in the lock just as the sun began to set that evening.  
“Sherlock? Is that you? What in the name of God does this mean?” John turned from the table to see Sophie in the living room. “Oh. Hey Soph. How did you get on?” She shrugged and flung her bag onto the sofa.  
“What’s the matter?” John looked over to the table and picked up the note he’d found there.  
“Sherlock left this. But, as usual, I can’t understand a word of it. He handed it over with a gentle shrug, then returned to fill the kettle. “Tea?” She looked up at him.  
“What blend?” John looked vaguely startled by the question.  
“Umm… tea?” She rolled her eyes.  
“Breakfast, Early Grey, Darjeeling, Chai?”  
“I know what you mean by blend.” He picked up the pot of tea bags. “It doesn’t say.” Sophie walked over and sniffed the pot.  
“Milk, no sugar.” John looked utterly bewildered.  
“Why was that necessary?”  
“Because I take Breakfast with milk, Early Grey with lemon, Darjeeling and Chai without anything; provided it’s loose leaf.” John shrugged and began to ready the mugs. As he did so, he gestured to the note.  
“So, what do you make of it?”  
“He says he’s gone to the police station and won’t be back until 2100. He also says that you’ll need to buy more milk because he took it out the fridge in order to store the heart from the last case.” John balked, then gagged as he sniffed the milk he’d been about to pour.  
“How do you know?” She indicated the note.  
“The cipher text is nicely broken down into the word blocks. The key is given on the right; the skull and crossbones. The major difference between this one and a typical one is the lack of a jaw. Some odd modernistic ones share this, but a traditional pirate-flag skull and crossbones would have a jaw. And swords, not bones. But anyway. The lack of a jaw is the key. Jaw. One of the ten parts in the body that is spelled with three letters in English. Means the cipher is either a 30-shift or a 10-shift. It’s Sherlock so it’ll be ten; thirty is far too frivolous. He also cut back to ten a day on his first step, so it’s got significance. There’s a single letter on its own, so it’s either an ‘A’ or an ‘I’. The letter is a ‘Q’, making it a leftwards ten-shift. Simple.” John took out his phone to text Sherlock, but had a sudden idea.  
“Can you make a cipher that will give him pause?” Sophie smirked at him.  
“I’ll have one ready by the time you get back with the milk.”  
  


“John! John, what the hell is she doing?!” John looked up to the computer.  
“Sophie,” he stressed the word, “had a theory about how Stafford had died. So I let her dissect it. After all, you only said you were storing it, not that you needed it. Case is closed, why not let her get practice in?”  
“True. Practical assessment next week. Not that I intend to do this.” She indicated the heart that lay in two parts on the table.  
“I said nothing of the sort!”  
“No, you wrote.” Sherlock paused, raised an eyebrow at John and stalked off to his room.  
“I’m going for a shower.” He called over his shoulder, absently. He nearly walked into the door of the bathroom when he saw the note pinned there. ‘Of course you are.’, it read, in John’s handwriting. Bloody man, Sherlock thought. Bringing this female into their life. She had no right taking John’s time. ‘No, I don’t,’ read the note pinned above the towel rack. ‘But if you saw, for once, instead of looking, then you’d know I’m not.’ Sherlock tore it down and threw it in the bin, forgetting the lid was down. “Bastard”, he hissed. ‘Temper, temper, Master Holmes.’, the note stuck to the bin read. ‘Perhaps a nice cold shower will help you… calm down?’. Mentally cursing the damned girl, he reached over to the CD player and hit play. Unfamiliar notes hit his ears. He sat on the lid of the toilet to undress and set the notes to score. The chord of Eb minor, followed by forty-nine notes. A cipher?  
  


“Sherlock?! Sherlock! Dammit man, if you don’t answer me I’m kicking the door down!” Silence was the only response. “Right. I’m calling Mycroft!” The bathroom door was flung open and a very wet, very naked, Sherlock Holmes confronted John.  
“If the house isn’t on fire, I’m going to be extremely angry.” John sighed, mainly to cover up the fact that he’d forgotten to breathe.  
“You’ve been in the shower for an hour and a half. I was beginning to think you’d drowned… or worse.” Sherlock noted the flush on John’s cheeks, the increase in his heart rate and his blown pupils.  
“I was in my mind palace; I couldn’t hear you. There’s no need to get angry.”  
“Dinner is ready. Put some clothes on.”  
  


The silence was awkward. John wouldn’t look at Sherlock, Sherlock was alternating between glaring at Sophie and staring at John, Sophie was ignoring Sherlock and Mrs Hudson had run out of things to say.  
“So, Sophie. How’s that project of yours going? Schools must have changed since I went, we were made to take notes at home; not cut things up.” Sophie smiled gently.  
“It’s not homework; I finished school two years ago. The dissection was me aiding Sherlock, and getting practice before my assessment next week.”  
“Oh that’s nice dear. So good of Sherlock, too.”  
“I didn’t allow her. She took liberties.” Sherlock snarled. John finally looked up at the man.  
“What’s the matter with you? You’ve been surly all afternoon.”  
“I’m trying to think, but all I get is incessant noise.”  
“Nothing is incessant. Even from the oddest patterns one can hear order, find the meaning.” Sophie piped up as she began to gather the plates. “It was the stents, you know. They collapsed due to the introduction of dicardiotriptalin into the bloodstream.” Sherlock pouted.  
“I knew that, I just needed to prove it.”  
“Why didn’t you have the blue stain then? It’s a real pain to have to make it, and you had most other stains.”  
“I had intended to get some at the earliest opportunity.” Sherlock said, defensively.  
“All trace would have gone within 48 hours of refrigeration. Basic knowledge.” Sophie countered. Sherlock sputtered indignantly, then stood from the table. He grabbed his violin, strode into his room, and slammed the door shut.  
  


That night, Sherlock tossed and turned in bed. He was gripped in the throes of a night terror. Unable to sleep through such sounds of distress, John rose to see if he could do anything.  
“Sherlock?” he murmured, kneeling next to his bed, “Sherlock?”. He placed his hand on the man’s bare shoulder. Sherlock rolled in towards the warmth of John’s touch. John shook Sherlock gently. The man muttered and snuggled in close. “Sherlock?” John shook him again. “Sherlock, you need to wake up before you hurt yourself.” John moved his hand and Sherlock began to writhe again. “Jesus, Sherlock!” John shook the man particularly roughly as he tried to wake him. Sherlock sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and frightened, breathing hard and sweating. He turned his startled gaze to John, who had returned his hand to Sherlock’s chest. “It’s alright, my friend.”, he murmured. Sherlock reached his hand out and tangled it into John’s t-shirt.  
“You’re here.” Sherlock mused, as if to himself. “You’re not dead. You’re safe.” John, absently and unconsciously, began to rub his thumb in gentle circles over Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock closed his eyes and began to settle back into sleep. As he drifted off he gave a small smile. “She didn’t steal you.”  
  


“Morning, John.” Sophie smiled as he walked into the room.  
“Morning. Do you have any idea how unnerving it is to be greeted by someone wielding a weapon?” She shrugged.  
“Not really. It needed cleaning.” John, too, shrugged.  
“Fair enough.” John began pouring cereal and milk into a bowl.  
“How’s Sherlock? He seemed unsettled last night.” John blushed vaguely.  
“He was fine once I’d woken him.” He carried on preparing breakfast. “I haven’t heard anything since.” As the words left his mouth, they heard the door open. Without looking up at him Sophie greeted Sherlock as she had John. He, however, turned to look at Sherlock. “Morning, Sher- sweet Jesus, man! Put some clothes on!” John flushed bright red and scrambled to find something with which to cover Sherlock.  
“Why? I’m perfectly content with my nudity.”  
“Sherlock! There’s a teenage girl in the room!” Sherlock looked sideways at Sophie, who was engrossed in lightly oiling the trigger mechanism. “She doesn’t mind. Do you?” She smiled lightly and shrugged.  
“It’s not as if I haven’t seen it before.” John looked aghast and choked on the air he was about to breathe in. Sophie checked the weapon over for any flaws or bulges before attaching a magazine and sending the working parts forward. She checked that the round was securely chambered before clicking the safety into place. She returned the weapon to its holster and picked up the pillow off the sofa. John was still ranting at Sherlock about indecency as she walked between the two of them. She pressed the cushion against his chest as she passed. “It’s not me you’re embarrassing. Observe, Sherlock. You’re looking and seeing, but not observing.” With that, she grabbed her bag and left. John was fidgeting nervously.  
“Can you please put some clothes on? What if Mrs Hudson comes in?” Sherlock passed the cushion back to John.  
“Fine.” He walked out of the room to return minutes later in a purple silk shirt and black trousers. “Better?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer he picked up his violin. He had to observe?! He was Sherlock Holmes. But true, he had been a little lax around John lately. So, observations. One, John was always clumsy around him. Two, John was always flushed around him. Sherlock usually accounted this to him being angry, but this often meant that John was angry at him for no apparent reason. Three, John’s breathing was erratic. See above. Four, John’s pupils would dilate. See above. Five, John’s heart rate would increase. See above. Six, John would be constantly licking his lips. See above. Seven, John would fidget nervously around him. See above. Eight, John would do as much as he could to avoid being in a room alone with Sherlock. On their own they could be attributed to anything. But together? Sophie had been right, he had seen but not observed. Dammit, he needed to speak to her.  
  


Sherlock was sitting on the sofa when Sophie returned.  
“Good day?” he asked. She stopped, then threw her head back and laughed.  
“You finally noticed then?” Sherlock nodded, slowly.  
“What do I do?” She sat on the chair at the desk, then spun to face him.  
“That depends on what you want to do.” Sherlock pursed his lips in thought.  
“I… I don’t understand the question.” Sophie smiled gently.  
“I know you don’t. Think about it this way. How do you feel towards John? If I were to tell you that I was going to have him attacked, how would you feel?”  
“Angry.” Sherlock didn’t hesitate with his response. “I’d have to do something to stop you.”  
“To protect him?”  
“Yes… I don’t want him to leave. Or date those women.”  
“Then tell him that. I’m sure even Lestrade could reach the correct conclusions from this.” Sherlock’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “I’m going out tonight, volunteered for the late shift. I’ll be gone in fifteen minutes and John will be home fifteen after that.” True to her word, a quarter of an hour later she was ready to leave. “Sherlock?” He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Be tactful.”  
  


John knew something was wrong immediately he walked through the door. Sherlock was sitting at rest with his fingers steepled, and his chin on his fingertips. John had never seen him sit completely still before. His hands would move constantly when he was thinking, or his feet would pace when he was explaining a theory. Even in sleep the man would move continuously; whether in a nightmare or not.  
“What’s wrong?” John wandered into the kitchen and began to prepare dinner. Offhand, he noticed the ingredients were fresh and all stacked away in the refrigerator. “Have you cleaned up?”  
“Mhmm.” John jumped out of his skin as Sherlock’s voice called from the other side of the table. He hadn’t heard him move.  
“Thanks. Makes my life a lot easier.”  
“Welcome.” John put down the carrot he’d been peeling.  
“What’s happened, Sherlock? Is it Moriarty? Or the woman?” Sherlock shook his head.  
“No, no, nothing like that. That would be easy. Logical. This isn’t.” John leant back against the counter.  
“Something stumped the great Sherlock Holmes? Christ, it must be good.” Sherlock smiled, a fleeting, sad movement.  
“It could be. I don’t know yet.”  
“More experiments? And just when I thought I’d get some room at last.”  
“Not this time. The sample is… unique. Not worth the risk.” John pursed his lips.  
“I can’t imagine you rating anything above knowledge.”  
“This I do. Or I think I do; I’m not entirely sure. I’ve never been in this situation before.”  
“Is it that code? Sophie said it would be hard, but I’m sure she’d work with you on it if you asked. She’s not as bad as you think she is.”  
“I know she’s not. She’s been helpful in this matter.” John cocked an eyebrow.  
“So it’s not the code?” Sherlock smiled.  
“For once, no. It’s more… personal.” John blanched a little, then blushed.  
“Have you… found someone?” he asked. Sherlock blushed.  
“I think so.” John turned a little.  
“What’s… what’s her name?”  
“His name.” That got John’s attention.  
“His name? If that’s so. Do I know him? Oh God, is it Lestrade? Anderson? Jesus, not Moriarty.” Sherlock threw his head back and laughed.  
“Mycroft would gut me if I looked at Greg. Anderson? Moriarty? I’m neither a masochist nor blind. Please. No.”  
“But do I know him?” John had turned fully and was peeling the vegetables in an agitated manner.  
“Yes. You do.” John’s hand slipped with the peeler and it ran straight into his palm.  
“Shit!” he swore loudly, as blood welled from the vicious slice his palm. Sherlock was there with a cloth and John’s medical bag before the first drop hit the floor.  
“Be more careful.” Sherlock swathed John’s hand in the cloth and pulled it close to his chest. He looked at the slice in his palm. “Christ it’s going to need stitches. Go on, go and sit down. Keep your arm raised for now.”  
“Sherlock, I am a doctor.”  
“Then you should know I’m right. Go on; go!” Sherlock pulled the sutures out of the kit and set them aside. He proceeded to clean out the cut, gently and tenderly, before suturing the wound shut. He applied a dressing and bandaged up the hand. Sherlock was on his knees, with John’s hand cradled in his. He looked up to find John starting down at him, tears in his eyes.  
“He’s a lucky man.” John’s voice hitched on the last word. Holding his gaze, Sherlock brought his lips to John’s wrist; over the pulse point. As they made contact, John gasped. He tried to withdraw his hand, but Sherlock held fast.  
“I don’t think he is. He’s stuck with me.” John frowned.  
“How is he? He’s agreed to be with you.”  
“I haven’t told him. I’m not sure how he’d react.”  
“Is he gay?”  
“I think so.”  
“He’d be all over you.” Sherlock murmured something that sounded like ‘we’ll see’. “Why are you telling me this? Shouldn’t you be telling him first?” Sherlock blushed darkly. His lips moved, but John couldn’t make out the words they formed. “You’ll have to speak up.” Sherlock had cast his eyes down as John had talked, but now raised his gaze.  
“I am telling him.” John’s breath caught in his chest and he blushed the same colour as Sherlock. “Love, to me, is such an alien concept. It cannot be analysed, dissected, experimented on. I cannot control it. It scares me, but I want it. I’ve grown to need it; more than the drugs, the nicotine. I’ve grown to need you.” Sherlock released John’s wrist and physically turned away. He’d been wrong, he’d misread the signs. John didn’t want hi-  
“Sherlock.” His name was uttered breathily, like a prayer on the lips of the pious. “Sherlock, look at me. Please.” He complied, his eyes giving away just how distressed he was. “You don’t need to be scared of the unknown.” Sherlock went to reply but John cut him off. “No, listen to me. You don’t have to be scared. I… I’ll be with you. I at least owe you that.” Seeing the look pass across Sherlock’s face, John hurriedly pressed on. “I don’t want to do this out of gratitude, not at all. I’ve wanted you for quite a while now.” John reached out and caught Sherlock’s chin. “You and those bloody cheekbones.”


End file.
